


His Right Hand

by redscudery



Series: Amanuensis [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aristocrat Sherlock, Awkward Sherlock, Boys Kissing, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy Ending, For Science!, Happy Ending, Horseback Riding, Horses, Humor, I'm tagging this both Regency and Victorian for reasons., John "Three Continents" Watson, John is a tease, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mycroft's Meddling, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Power Bottom John, Reasons that have NOTHING TO DO WITH HISTORICAL FLEXIBILITY, Regency, Regency Romance, Sherlock can't ride, Sherlock falls into a lake, Sherlock is a Mess, Top Sherlock, Victorian, Virgin Sherlock, Viscount John, aristocrat John, because, but not really, frantic Regency masturbation, in spots, or near as makes no difference, well hot men kissing, which let's face it is pretty funny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3101213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, Viscount Granthorpe, needs a private secretary. Mycroft Holmes, Baronet Clytheroe, has a troublesome younger brother who is entirely unsuited for the army or the clergy. Sherlock, under threat of being cut off from the family purse, accepts the position reluctantly, but he will discover that there are unexpected advantages to being under John Watson's protection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Right Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpaceCatandtheKittens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceCatandtheKittens/gifts).



> for my very patient giveaway winner, SpaceCatandtheKittens, who requested "Regency AU, arranged marriage, angst with a happy ending. Is that doable?"
> 
> Well, if by "arranged marriage" you mean "arranged living together as employer and employee" and by "angst" you mean "frantic masturbation", and by "happy ending" you mean "Sherlock having the stroppiness power bottomed out of him beside a pond," then, yes. Yes it is.
> 
> Big thanks to tiltedsyllogism and jinglebell for their feedback and everyone in AD chat for the cheerleading.

Sherlock Holmes looked out over the lawns sweeping away from the main wing of Clytheroe Park, the Holmes family home, and scowled.

“It’s hateful,” he exclaimed, “absolutely hateful!”

“It is, brother dear, the best that I can do,” said Mycroft, calmly.

“Why is it, Mycroft, that I find that so hard to believe?”

“Because you are childish,” Mycroft said, and held out a small silver object. “Here. This should allay your fears somewhat.”

Sherlock took it and looked.

“A miniature? I am hardly a prospective bride.”

Mycroft only sighed in answer, and turned to the papers in his hand. Sherlock sneaked a look. The simple but costly frame held a picture of a sandy-haired man with strong features; not exactly handsome, but his unreadable expression piqued Sherlock’s interest enough to disturb his equanimity. He tossed the miniature back with a nonchalance he did not quite feel.

“So that’s who you’ve sold me to, is it? I hope he paid top dollar; I’m superior goods, you know,” he sniped, glancing at the mirror over the fireplace as if to assure himself he was, in fact, just as handsome as he had been upon leaving his room that morning.

“Viscount Granthorpe has been…useful, and I believe you will suit.”

“Suit. Your language is not improving, Mycroft.”

“You are unbearable, Sherlock. I refuse to have you meddling here—you know how it upsets Mummy when we disagree, and we do always disagree…”

“That’s because you’re an incompetent arse.”

“…so,” Mycroft continued as though he had heard nothing, “Go you must, and since you are pathologically unfit for the clergy…”

“Not being the family idiot.” Sherlock interrupted.

“…and also very unsuited for the army…”

“Victor Trevor was in no way unwilling!”

“No. He was, however, a low, opportunistic blackmailer who knew how to turn your little dalliance into scandal and a fat profit for himself.”

“I didn’t know.”

“No, you did not. But you still cannot return to your regiment—or any branch of His Majesty’s service—and I’m certain Oxford won’t take you…”

“I would rather sweep the streets than tutor snot-nosed aristocrats.”

“You would end up walking the streets, Sherlock, if you remember, and there’s plenty of the snot-nosed aristocrat in you still.”

“I was not expecting that opium to be as strong as it was, Mycroft,” Sherlock said stiffly, “and the affair was never repeated. Why, I ask you, can I not remain here? There are several rather interesting experiments that I could do if I had some laboratory space, and if you’d just let me reform your antiquated crop system…”

“I will not. And you will not. You will be private secretary to John Watson, Viscount Granthorpe, and you will perform your job adequately. Lord Watson is a very scientifically minded man.”

“Scientific. With your understanding of the word, you probably mean he catalogues flowers in his spare time. What’s to keep me from chucking the whole thing, Mycroft? I don’t need to do as you say.”

“But you will. Because you like your comfort just a little too much, Sherlock, and you go through expensive clothes at a shocking rate. And carriages,” Mycroft grinned, with the face of a man who knew he was dealing a death blow, ”are so very costly.”

At this, Sherlock bit off a curse and, dealing a kick to the side of Mycroft’s beloved piano, stalked out of the room.

  
  


When Sherlock got out of the carriage at Granthorpe, he was surprised to see the viscount himself waiting for him on the drive. John Watson stood, leaning heavily on a teak cane, as Sherlock shooed away the footman and lifted the case containing his most valuable scientific tools. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw the miniature had not done John Watson justice. The ordinary features took on a whole new meaning seen in conjunction with the formidable set of his shoulders and, though he was nearly a head shorter than Sherlock, he stood in such a way that made Sherlock feel small despite himself.

“Welcome, Holmes,” Granthorpe said, “I trust your journey was acceptable.”

“Well enough, Lord Watson,” Sherlock said curtly.

“John, please,” John smiled at Sherlock, an unexpectedly open, sunny smile, “I don’t have a large staff, and we’ll be working together quite closely; might as well begin as we mean to go on.”

“Call me Sherlock then. Do you have laboratory space?” Sherlock knew he was being rude, but he also meant to make things quite clear that he would be no lackey.

“I do. It’s apart from the house so I won’t set the place on fire. My sister insisted on it, not that she’s around much to make sure I use it. Would you like to take your things in there first?” His blue eyes were warmer than Sherlock had been expecting.

“Yes.” Sherlock answered, “um. Please.” Please? Not the least lackey-like thing he could have said. Shaking himself, he swung his case on to his shoulder and watched John walk, unhurried and resolute, towards the low building in the distance.

It was a beautiful installation, and Sherlock nearly forgot his petulance at the gleaming benches and up-to-date glassware.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” John grinned companionably, as Sherlock prowled around, exploring, “I’m hoping to increase my corn yield, and improve the quality of the soil.”

Sherlock stopped his inspection at this.

“Doesn’t sound very exciting for a retired cavalry officer.”

John raised his eyebrows. “And thus the attraction. While getting shot at did have its charms, actually being shot had nearly nothing to recommend it.”

“Nearly nothing?” Sherlock felt quite obliged to rise to the bait.

“Pretty nurses.” John said.

“But there weren’t any women near that campaign.”

“No,” John said, “There weren’t.”

“Army corps nurses,” Sherlock said flatly, feeling, shamefully, a crimson stain of hot blood rise to his cheeks.

“Yes.” John’s eyes never left him, gauging his reaction.

Sherlock suddenly felt very much like the last petit four on a tea tray.

Worse, he was enjoying feeling like the last petit four on a tea tray. He looked at John’s mouth; it was well-shaped and predatory mouth, and Sherlock imagined being consumed by it. The heat in his cheeks seemed to spread everywhere. John was still watching him, and for a moment, the laboratory was very quiet.

Then, as if nothing had happened, John asked, “Would you like a cup of tea before you unpack?”

“Y…yes, of course,” Sherlock answered. He turned and, bending towards his box, breathed deeply, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Thankfully, when he rose, John was already making his way to the door. Sherlock set the box next to the bench and caught up.

  
  


“So,” John said, once they had made their way to a pleasantly cluttered library (”No use going to the drawing room; can’t put our feet up or Hudson--the housekeeper—will have my head. Study’s where we can do what we like”) “Your duties will really not be onerous, I think. Letters, sometimes, although my correspondance is not heavy, but mainly I wish you to help me improve the farming here.”

“Ah?” Sherlock said, sitting forward. “Bad soil?”

“Not exactly,” John said, and, settling himself into a distinctly tatty green wing chair, began to enumerate the problems. Sherlock questioned him avidly, forgetting lips, shoulders, and warm blue eyes in the pleasure of discussing soil tilth and crop rotations.

Their tea and muffins grew cold as they talked, and it was only when a housemaid came in to light the fire that they realized how late it was.

“I beg your pardon, Sherlock,” John said, looking into the cups ruefully. “I do go on.”

Sherlock grinned, his first real smile since he’d left Clytheroe.

“No need to apologise. I don’t care a snap for social niceties; it’s the work that matters.”

“Quite,” John said, “But we do have to live, I suppose.”

Sherlock made a dismissive noise. John laughed, then, suddenly, the heat in his eyes was back.

“Did you leave a trail of broken hearts behind you when you left? Some lovely young bluestocking, perhaps?”

“No, uh, women are,” Sherlock nearly stuttered, “Not my area.”

“Oh?” John’s voice was silky now, “Young men? A handsome young squire? A tempting stable lad?”

“No.” This, at least, was easy to answer. There had been nobody since Victor.

“You’re quite alone then, like me.” The corner of John’s mouth rose in a half-smile.

“I guess I am.” Sherlock said. He looked into the other man’s eyes as a show of bravado, but John held his gaze, smiling and still.

“I had better retire, I suppose. Good night.” And, as rudely as he could, Sherlock left the library.

Upon reaching his chambers, he threw himself on the bed. He was furious at his own spinelessness; even his brusque departure had seemed more like a retreat. Though his eyes were closed, Sherlock could not squeeze the image of John out of his mind.

How could this small man, relaxed and lordly in his ugly chair, undo him so? He drew a long shuddering breath, but nothing, now, could prevent the rush of blood to his cock. He ground his hips into the mattress and groaned at the sensation. John’s face floated before him, and it seemed to Sherlock that he was watching him knowingly. Sherlock did it again. The pressure left him breathless; he rolled to his back, fumbling for his buttons. Perhaps once he’d satisfied this bodily craving his mind would be clear.

When he liberated his cock, it was already hard and aching; one stroke and he was breathing hard, two more and he’d found his rhythm. He thought of John’s mouth as he spent, white-hot shocks arcing through his body.

Sherlock lay for a moment, recovering his breath. He floated an image of John—already ensconced in his own personal wing of Sherlock’s Mind Palace—before his eyes, hoping to be able to see him clearly.

He was disappointed. John was still larger than life; that, and his distinctive features, lent him an allure that was far and away more commanding than any conventionally handsome man. He put the London bucks to shame.

The problem was, of course, that Sherlock didn’t want to be commanded.

His cock twitched in his hand, the inconvenient appendage. Sherlock ignored it. It was a somewhat intriguing position; he’d so rarely had to work to make someone dislike him. Even more rare was having to work to dislike someone, and he did not dislike John Watson, Viscount Granthorpe.

Yet.

  
  


The next morning, Sherlock woke early, somewhat disgusted with himself for having slept so well. He was deliberately late for breakfast, but when he came down, breakfast was still laid, albeit for one.

Sherlock, though it was a strain, took his time over the frankly excellent food. It was thus nearly midday when he allowed himself to go to the library. He was more curious than he cared to admit about John’s reaction to his lack of punctuality. Would he draw himself up and lay down the law—Sherlock’s treacherous cock gave a throb at that—or would he be calm? Dismissal seemed unlikely, and for that, Sherlock reluctantly admitted to himself, he was grateful. Whatever else John Watson was or was not, he was interesting, and that made this place a marginally better place to be than under Mycroft’s nose at Clytheroe. It did not, however, mean he was going to take his exile lying down.

Another throb. Sherlock smoothed his coat savagely and entered the library.

“Ah, there you are,” John said, turning as he entered. He raised his eyebrow at the slam of the door, but merely said, “I thought you might like to have a look at the specs of the estate; I’ve got the main details here and a diary of the changes I’ve made.” Holding out a sheaf of papers and a worn black book, he stood —without a cane, Sherlock noticed— and smiled.

“Very well.” Sherlock said as ungraciously as he could muster. He didn’t look at John’s mouth; his breeches would never sustain the fiction of his disinterest.

“There’s a map here, too,” John said, beckoning him to a nearby table. Sherlock saw that it was a reproduction of Granthorpe, to scale, and couldn’t help approaching. He took it in with one quick glance: the waterways, the forests, the distribution of the tenant farms.

Something was… off.

“What’s wrong with this hillside, here? No farms.”

John smiled approvingly.

“Enclosures. I’m not one for them, much, but I lost so many people to the mills that I could do it.”

“Odd place for it, no?”

“I did think so, yes, but…”

“No ‘but’; If you’d put this farm with the larger piggery by this covert here, it’d have…” Sherlock continued.

John countered, giving a perfectly ridiculous reason, and Sherlock took pleasure in setting him straight. The flash in John’s eyes at the list of various better possibilities made Sherlock’s heart beat faster; surely that was approbation? He stopped speaking, suddenly.

“That was…” John said, then hesitated. Sherlock waited, nearly quivering. “Brilliant!” John finished.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open.

“That’s not what people usually say,” he blurted out.

“Oh? And what do people usually say?” John leaned forward and caught Sherlock’s gaze.

“Piss off.” Sherlock answered, quietly, mesmerized. Silence hung in the air.

“Then those people are fools,” John stated gravely, not looking away.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but could not. John’s face was suddenly much closer to him; if he stooped only a little, he would be able to touch that mouth. A thin mouth, but not a cruel one-he thought. Sherlock wondered if it could be just a little cruel, if it were warranted, and shivered. Immediately he regretted it. John’s pupils dilated, seeing him,and his hand rose up from the table towards Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Well!” Sherlock said, loudly enough to make himself cringe. “Shall we see this place?”

“Of course,” John replied, stepping back, and they left the room.

Sherlock, to his own chagrin, found the pony trap that John had summoned large and comfortable, and they sat in their respective corners, able to talk but in no way near one another. At least the conversation was intelligent, he thought, though John was possessed of some remarkably ignorant information about barley and its lack of nitrogen-binding properties.

As dusk drew in, they wended their way back to Granthorpe Close, finally silent.

“We’ll dine almost right away, if you don’t mind,” John said, as he alighted rather stiffly from the trap. Too late, Sherlock extended his hand; John took it, though his feet were already on the ground.

It was an odd feeling, Sherlock thought, the way John’s smaller hand slid into his. Sherlock curled his fingers almost reflexively around the warmth of John’s skin and felt an answering pressure. John’s thumb brushed along the thin skin

at John’s wrist, and Sherlock nearly gasped.

“Of..of course not,” he said, freeing himself and leaping to the ground. John smiled at him, and let him go first into the house.

Dinner was remarkably quiet. Sherlock sat uncomfortably, watching, with new knowledge, John's hands along his utensils. Each movement made Sherlock harder, and he shifted in his seat. Only by dint of focusing his mind, and then his mouth, on a long-ish diatribe about the effects of enclosure on grass, was he able to make himself decent enough to leave the room.

“Brandy, Sherlock?” John asked, just as Sherlock had nearly reached the safety of the hallway. Sherlock tried forcing a harsh “no” from his lips, but, as he did, he turned back. Seeing the friendly light in John’s eyes undermined his resolve; his disdainful “no” melted to a such a soft “yes” that John’s eyes gleamed. Sherlock recognized the predatory look and shivered in helpless anticipation.

  
  


To his great surprise, however, John made no advances; they simply sat companionably, now talking about the plans to revive the enclosed areas, now silent. In the warmth of the fire and in the uncritical acceptance of John’s presence, Sherlock became conscious of an unfamiliar feeling. After a moment’s reflection, he realized it was contentment: his mind was active but not racing, and he was with John, who listened, and if he did not understand everything, well, who could, with Sherlock Holmes? And this peer, at least, seemed willing to implement intelligent advice, unlike Mycroft.

“...for me, I think,” John was saying, as he rose. He crossed the room and bent, quickly, to brush Sherlock’s cheek with his lips. Sherlock barely felt them before they were gone, and when he looked up, unbelieving, John was almost out of the room.

“Good night,” Sherlock said softly.

“Good night, Sherlock,” John called from the hall.

Sherlock sat for a moment. He was beginning to realize just how formidable John Watson, Viscount Granthorpe might be. One kiss, one brush of soft lips and beard against his skin, and Sherlock was painfully hard again. Worse, he still felt content, and inclined to do John’s bidding, whatever that might be. A very dangerous situation, that.

 

He already knew that bringing himself off would result in a momentary rush of well-being, followed by a cold emptiness in which his hunger for John’s touch was not at all sated. Still, he reached for his cock, which was demanding attention, and held on to it, despite the fact that the attention it was demanding was not his.

Ungrateful appendage, Sherlock thought, as he licked his thumb and pressed it under the head. He knew it wasn’t John’s tongue but closed his eyes and imagined the rough slickness along his glans. Arching his hips, Sherlock tried to continue the fantasy. It’s John’s firm hand there, he thought, at the base. He’s sucking me down, but he won’t let me come; he’s going to bring me right to the edge, though.

Sherlock slid his fist around his cock and pushed into it again. John was definitely interested in men--that was abundantly clear--and he was definitely interested in Sherlock. But Sherlock was balancing on a knife’s edge. If he fell into John Watson’s bed, Mycroft would be proven right, which was intolerable; if he didn’t fall into John Watson’s bed, he might spontaneously combust, which would also be intolerable.

John Watson. In bed. Which is, Sherlock thought, probably where he is now.

The idea of John undressing, with or without help, was another intolerable one. Sherlock knew he could probably have found a spot to observe, but he pushed the idea away. It was just another way to be more deeply entwined in John Watson’s web. Were he ever to see the viscount naked, he would probably be unable to stop himself from bursting into the room like an actress from a cake. That, Sherlock thought, was just too much to bear.

His cock throbbed insistently at the idea of a naked John Watson; and Sherlock squeezed it mercilessly. To his mixed disgust and excitement, this came to his brain as one more gesture of John’s.

John would handle me firmly, he thought; he would know I was just about to come. He would push me to my knees, and make me take his cock in his mouth, slide the fat head inside, until...Sherlock could practically taste the salt tang, and focused his mind on the image. Biting his lip, he stroked himself again and again, opening his mouth and feeling the soft heaviness of John on his tongue. His pleasure mounted quickly, and he spent with a soft cry.

As he prepared himself for sleep--for he was sleepy, much against his will--he resolved that tomorrow he would push John Watson away decisively. It was the best thing he could think of for now, short of sending Mycroft a box of cow shit by express mail.

And yet John’s blue eyes were the last thing Sherlock thought about as he fell asleep.

 

He was cross with himself the next morning upon waking. He had let his tendre for Victor blind him to his own interests, and look how that had led him back into Mycroft’s clutches.  There was a fine line he had to walk, here: he would show his colours without losing his employ, and that would be that.

By dressing carefully, Sherlock managed to arrive downstairs as breakfast was being cleared away. He stalked through the room, picked up a piece of toast from the rack, and wandered nonchalantly into the library, scattering crumbs as he went.

“Good morning,” John said, turning to greet him. The expression of amusement on his face was tinged, Sherlock was happy to see, with irritation. He plunked his weight on the edge of the table that held the model Granthorpe, sending several pigs and at least two cottages sliding crazily into the pond. He fixed John with a silent stare.

“Today we’ll go farther afield,” John said mildly, ignoring the gesture. He picked up his fowling piece and headed to the door, clearly expecting Sherlock to follow.

Sherlock followed.

When they arrived at the stables, however, he balked.

“I’d prefer to walk.”

John looked at him as though he’d said he’d prefer to flap his wings and fly.

“Walk?”

“Walk. Better for the… constitution.”

“We’ll never get over the whole of even the park today if we walk, Sherlock, and, as you may have noticed,” John leaned in, and gestured to his leg, “I could not walk even should I want to.”

“It’s all in your head,” Sherlock blurted, somewhat undone by the heat of John’s body so near him. John blinked at him, clearly taking in this new information.

“Well, that’s as may be. It still hurts.”

“Tell me about your land.” Sherlock tried. “We can look at the map more closely.”

“No.” The calm firmness of John’s voice rocked Sherlock’s composure. "You may not like to ride, but you will. This horse is gentle, the terrain is reasonable, and there is work to be done. So get on." John said,and turned away to take the reins the groom was handing him.

Sherlock leaned against the wall, reflecting. He would not, could not, get on a horse in front of John Watson. If he did, he’d lose whatever status he’d gained in John’s eyes.

“Now, Sherlock.” John said, not looking back at him. A frisson swept through Sherlock’s body at the commanding tone.  He had been itching to test John Watson’s patience, and he had clearly found a limit. He took the reins of his own horse.

Sherlock did, though, almost quail when he looked it in the eye. A large bay gelding of about 16 hands, he estimated-incidentally, quite the right size for him, which made him wonder whether John was unfortunately horsey or whether the groom was to blame- and intelligent to boot.

Sherlock hated intelligent horses.

Actually, Sherlock hated all horses. They were much smarter than any animal had a right to be, but not smart enough to reason with in any way he chose to understand.

The horse’s head jerked, and Sherlock grabbed it.

“Hold still,” he growled , but the horse simply jerked its head again and stared at him accusingly.

“You have to talk kindly to him,” John’s voice made Sherlock jump, “But you can’t let him run away with you.”

“Thanks so much for that generous and startlingly new advice.” Sherlock snarled, “I will keep that in mind.” He stuck his foot into the stirrup as confidently as he could, and, by some miracle, made it into the saddle. He sat there for a moment, blinking. Surely it was unnatural to be up this high?

“Let’s go, then,” John said, and walked his grey out of the stable. Sherlock followed, reluctantly, and continued to follow as John headed down the broad lane that led out of the park. He cursed John’s careful pace. From the set of John’s back and the gait of his horse it was clearly an unusual speed for them. Taking the reins more tightly, Sherlock kicked his horse into a trot, passing John with gritted teeth.

“There’s no rush,” John called after him, but Sherlock kept going, and finally John caught up. They continued in relative silence until they reached the far coverts, beyond the road.  Sherlock’s arse and wrists were aching, but he knew now he’d have to listen as well as ride, and he quailed a little.

“We’ll go right up to the far boundary,” John said, kicking up his grey, “and work our way back.”

Sherlock set his jaw and followed. The bay, happy to be stretching his legs, went into a mercifully smooth canter, and Sherlock felt, for a moment, what others must like about riding. It was much better than a stagecoach, even, a sense of the sheer power of the horse beneath him and his detachment from the earth.

Then, John yelled “Fence!”

Sherlock had only time to realize that John had led them to the small watercourse to the east of the covert. In a split second, the bay had gathered up his haunches and leaped, and Sherlock’s world came crashing down.

Or rather, splashing down. Seeing the stone fence, Sherlock pushed himself free, propelling his body as far as he could towards the forgiving water of the lake. He had the momentary satisfaction of seeing the horse’s confused expression before he landed in two feet of cold water and stuck fast in the mud at the bottom of the pond.

Sherlock stopped to get his breath before fighting to the surface. In fact, he contemplated staying there until John was forced to dismount and pull him out. Or, he thought, I could just stay here and drown. None of the options that followed leaving the lake were appealing, really. But, when his body bucked for oxygen, he pushed up and surfaced, gasping in the sweet summer air.

Shaking his hair out of his eyes, he looked around for John, but the viscount was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock was suddenly grateful--there was no sense in losing all his dignity. He shook his head again, vigorously, and removed his muddy coat. He was standing on the edge of the bank working his shirt buttons open when John came galloping back.

“Sherlock!” he yelled, leaping from his horse, “You’re not hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, curtly, yanking at another stubborn button.

“Not even a scratch?” John said, quite loudly. He was suddenly much closer than Sherlock had expected.

“Your horse is a dangerous beast.” Sherlock said, sourly, to cover his confusion.

“You can’t ride.” John said, taking a half-step closer.

“Demonstrably, I can, or I wouldn’t be out at the back of your farmland without a carriage.”

“Semantics,” John’s mouth twitched, and Sherlock felt those hot eyes at the vee of his open shirt. “You can’t really ride, and you know it.”

“Horses,” Sherlock said, “are the bane of my existence.” He looked down at the stubborn button once more.

For a moment there was silence. Then, there was an odd wheezing sound. Sherlock looked up and was scandalized to see John bent double, laughing so hard that almost no sound came out.

“You… you…” he tried, and then continued to laugh, overcome.

Sherlock watched, stock-still and openmouthed, as John laughed himself out. He was used to the sound of laughter directed at him, but something about the tone of John’s hilarity was unfamiliar.

Warmth, he thought, as John finally wiped his eyes and stood up. He’s not laughing at me. Just at… this. Sherlock’s own mouth bent into a slow smile.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” John said frankly, looking up at him. “It’s just that… you’re not hurt, and you’re so very wet and muddy, and your--here he gave one more brief wheeze--your hair is quite mad.”

Sherlock raised his hand to run it through the black tangle again, but took it down again as John’s smaller hand reached up and touched one wet curl.

“There’s so much,” he said, and threaded his fingers into it, pulling Sherlock down so they were face to face.

Sherlock blinked. John’s face so close to his was dizzying, his eyes wide open, a blue blur in Sherlock’s field of vision. The warmth from John’s hand at the back of his head radiated throughout his body. Sherlock reached out, tentatively, to touch John as well, to close the circuit. His hand alighted on John’s shoulder revelling in his solidity and warmth.  

At his touch, John exhaled, as if with a long-held breath. Sherlock’s focus shifted instantly to that mouth, thin and beautifully shaped. He wondered what it would taste like.

He wondered if kissing his employer would lose him his position. No. Seeing John’s pupils dilate, Sherlock knew the only thing he would lose was his heart.

And still that wasn’t enough to keep him from leaning forward, and, quickly and clumsily, brushing John’s mouth with his own. A jumble of impressions scrambled Sherlock’s brain before he drew back, shocked at his own temerity.

John let him go--though not so far that Sherlock couldn’t feel their breaths mingle--and sighed. For a slow moment, they hung in the moment. Sherlock shifted against the heat of John’s hand and breath, suddenly wanting more but unable to move towards it. Was there a smile at the corner of John’s mouth? Exasperation? Sherlock began to think about moving, about fleeing.

Then, in one smooth motion, John pulled his head down, and Sherlock stopped thinking. John’s mouth opened beneath him, bit his bottom lip, and pulled. Sherlock’s mouth watered and his knees weakened. Before he could catch himself, though, the whipcord strength of John’s body held him steady and he slumped towards the heat of John’s embrace.

Sherlock knew that if he were one inch closer, he would feel every part of John against him. It seemed almost too much--an embarassment of riches--and yet he could not stop himself. His hands slid to John’s waist and their bodies met.

 

John’s coat was rough against Sherlock’s bare chest, but the scratching along his skin was nothing in comparison to John’s hands on his shoulder blades, and the sweet whisper of John’s mouth along his neck. He pulled back and set his mouth to John’s once more, sliding his thigh between John’s legs. John leaned against him, his mouth drawing Sherlock’s in. The thick heavy heat of John’s cock pressing against him made him dizzy. When he pressed his own against John, he gasped and nearly withdrew, afraid he would embarrass himself. He had not felt the touch of another man since Victor, and John tasted like everything forbidden and delicious, and yet like home; Sherlock knew that if he gave himself over fully to this act that his body might betray him.

As if reading Sherlock’s mind, John smiled against his mouth, and gripped his hipbones, rocking their bodies together. Sherlock’s head dropped to John’s shoulder, and he was already fighting the rising tide of pleasure. His body tensed and he gritted his teeth, with the effort of holding back.

John stilled.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. “I will stop. Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Sherlock caught his breath, “just…”

“Slow,” John murmured.

“Slow. Please.”

John kissed him again, his mouth softer but no less commanding. Sherlock sighed against him, grateful for the respite. John’s hands went to his buttons, and he returned the favour once his own muddy shirt had fallen to the ground.

Undressed, John was still slight, but perfectly formed; Sherlock bent to kiss his collarbones, tasting the sweetness of his skin.  With his first show of impatience since he had seen Sherlock was not hurt, John shook himself free and discarded his coat and shirt. Sherlock stood back and watched, mouth watering, as each inch of lithe muscle was uncovered.

“You…” he said, then stopped. John smiled down at him, taking in his meaning.

“I am old and broken, Sherlock,” he said, suddenly grave.

“You are neither,” Sherlock said quickly.

John shook his head and laughed ruefully.

“You think you are, because of that small scar--here he indicated a healed wound on John’s shoulder--and your ridiculous limp. But you are nothing of the kind. If you were old and broken,” Sherlock continued sharply, “I would have nothing to do with you.” He primmed up his mouth , and, as John laughed, he realized he had done it to provoke that very response.

“Sherlock, you are so…”

“What?” Sherlock frowned.

“Sherlock-y, I suppose.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. He stepped back, his face twisting in an expression that he knew was too revealing, but try as he might he could not stop it.

“Sherlock!” John seized him, “That is a good thing, yeah?”

Sherlock stared, silent. John waited a moment, then shook his head and went towards the horses.

Sherlock watched him go. John’s bare back golden in the dying light, his arse firm in his breeches. Sherlock’s mouth watered.

Stupid. Stupid to have let himself fall and let John catch him, if only for a moment. He was suddenly cold, and angry, and he slumped to the ground; only the damp shirts behind him kept him from flinging himself completely flat.  He listened to the chink of the saddlebag and waited for the sound of hooves. Instead, he heard John’s footsteps returning.

“Sherlock? Are you all right?” John’s voice had a slight note of concern. Let him, Sherlock thought, the cruel bastard, wallowing in his misery.

John loomed over him. It was just like him, Sherlock thought, to loom. He closed his eyes.

For a moment. He could feel John coming closer.

“I see.” John said, his voice so calm Sherlock felt the only relief would be to throw something large at his head. That is, until John kneeled between his legs, put the flat of his hand on Sherlock’s chest, and pushed. Sherlock let himself tip over, eyes still shut. He wished he were still at the bottom of the pond.

“You are temperamental, spoiled, and stupidly proud.” John said, firmly.

“You are overbearing, choleric, and deeply ill-informed.” Sherlock shot back, trying to twist away a little.

Too late. John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head.

“Oh, Sherlock.” he said, smiling smugly--Sherlock could tell it was smug, even with his eyes closed--”You do care.”

“Caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Oh,” John breathed along his neck, “You are so very wrong.” His voice seemed to sink to Sherlock’s very bones, and Sherlock arched towards him helplessly.

“I am never wrong.” Sherlock whispered, but by this time John’s mouth was along his ribcage, travelling south.

“Until you are,” John whispered against the buttons of his trousers, and Sherlock said no more.

John kept his promise to go slowly, undoing each button and then kissing the exposed skin. He eased the tight buckskins off Sherlock’s hips and peeled them down his thighs, taking delicious care with each movement.

When Sherlock was finally naked, John sat back on his heels again and looked at him.

“Open your eyes, Sherlock.” he said, his voice even lower than usual, but still commanding.

Sherlock opened his eyes. John’s back was to the setting sun, and its last rays illuminated his hair and beard and skin; he shone. He fought an unaccustomed urge to tell John he was beautiful.

“You’re beautiful,” John said roughly, and Sherlock closed his eyes again, this time giving himself up completely.

As if sensing his submission, John began to kiss his way up Sherlock’s legs. Each tiny, deliberate caress made Sherlock breathe more deeply and more slowly. By the time John’s heated breath was hovering over his cock, Sherlock had fallen into a sensual trance, oblivious to everything but John’s caresses. When that warm mouth finally engulfed him, it was but a natural progression of the latter, and though Sherlock rolled his hips in pleasure, the frantic pace of their earlier touches was gone.

Once the act begun, John sucked him with the slow sweetness of an expert, hands sleeking over Sherlock’s belly and thighs.

Only when Sherlock’s hips were rocking rhythmically did John take his mouth away and move up to kiss Sherlock’s open mouth. Sherlock melted into the earth, relishing the solid weight of John on top of him and--oh, blessing!--the hot weight of John’s cock against his thigh.

John kissed him with purpose, the rest of his body as still as he could make it. Sherlock was all sensation; he let his mouth be possessed, twining his fingers into John’s hair.

When John had kissed his fill, he shifted his weight and took Sherlock’s aching cock into his hand again. He ran a soft thumb around the head and along the shaft, cupping Sherlock’s balls in his hand. Sherlock opened his legs, asking for more; John’s hand disappeared for a moment, then reappeared slick and soft, pressing down across his arsehole in short, tantalizing strokes. His cock leaped as John pressed into him; John caught it in his mouth, and suddenly Sherlock was floating. One movement brought him towards John’s mouth, the other towards John’s fingers, and in short order Sherlock was so near his crisis that it would have taken one single stroke to bring him off. John stopped right at that stroke, leaving Sherlock gasping.

“Sherlock,” John was panting too, now, though Sherlock had not yet touched him, “I must have you.”

A frantic “Oh” was all Sherlock could manage in return. He remembered the stretch and pull of Victor as he had sunk into him; if it were John it would be less painful, better. He did want it, he thought, though his desire had ebbed slightly. John would be careful, he thought.

John bent to reach for the tallow again. Sherlock lifted his knees and waited, watching the shift of John’s muscles as he moved.

John dipped his fingers into the jar and set it aside. Warming the tallow on his hands, he reached down, and, to Sherlock’s great surprise, slicked his hand along Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock arched up off the ground, the air rushing out of him in a long sigh.

Then, John straddled him, his eyes closing briefly as his cock rubbed against Sherlock’s, but as soon as they touched, John lifted his body up and settled over Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock ran his hands along John’s waist and gripped his hips, pulling him forward until John’s cock was within reach of his mouth. He looked for a moment, then opened his mouth and took in the heavy head, slick with fluid. John groaned as Sherlock sucked, softly at first, and then more insistent.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, and Sherlock cupped one buttock in each hand and pulled him in as deep as he could. Emulating John’s gesture, he spread John’s arse with his hands and stroked, teasing. John sank back upon his finger, and Sherlock found himself shivering with the thrill of making John’s body flush and tremble.

It was an all-too-brief thrill, though. Five, six strokes, and John was pulling back, his eyes bright and his breath short. He bent, and their lips met in one sweet, drowning kiss. Sherlock cried out softly, seeking more contact, and John hovered above him, teasing.

“Please,”  Sherlock gasped, and arched his hips up again. John slid back down, and Sherlock felt the smooth pucker of John’s arsehole against the head of his cock. John rolled his hips and Sherlock’s eyes flew wide open as the head of his cock breached the slick warmth of John’s body.

“I…” Sherlock said, his mouth dry, “I thought you said you had to have me.”

“I am having you.”

“I’m having you.” Sherlock insisted, but his argument dried up as he watched John slowly work himself down onto his cock.

“See?” John whispered, after Sherlock had been silent for a moment, and kissed him again.

Sherlock did see, now. Or rather, he felt; he was not sure any part of his body--other than his nerve endings--was function. He felt engulfed, taken in, surrounded by heat and warmth.

“All right?” John asked against his mouth, and Sherlock could only nod.

Settling himself firmly, John began to move, and it was all Sherlock could do to follow him. Each soft undulation brought greater pleasure, and Sherlock lay pinned, panting, as John moved over him, a slow but merciless force.

“Look at me, Sherlock,” John husked, as his rhythm accelerated. Sherlock opened his eyes, but his whole body was so focused on impending crisis that he could only make out the outline of John’s body above him.

“Touch me,” The crack in John’s voice was Sherlock’s undoing. Every second of longing and desire, of friction and heat, coalesced into pure pleasure, and as he closed his hand around John’s steel-hard cock, he spent inside him. John, seeing Sherlock’s mouth fall open, was quickly brought to his own end. With a deep, soft sigh, he spilled his seed on Sherlock’s chest, his own convulsions spurring Sherlock to final shocks that seemed to come from the innermost recesses of his body.

John hung his head, panting with effort, and Sherlock, suddenly fearless, gathered him to his chest. The cooling stickiness of John’s spend mingled with their sweat and the tallow, but Sherlock embraced it, rolling John to his side and tucking him in under his arm. How could it be that such an imposing man fit in this space? He could not say.

 

And yet he was glad such a thing was possible.   

 

When John finally looked up, the blatant affection in his eyes made the blood rise to Sherlock’s cheeks, and he looked away.

“You are marvelous, Sherlock, you really are.” John’s voice echoed through the still air.

“You are…” Sherlock began, then stopped. Something was niggling at him now that his mind was suddenly clear again, “You put tallow in your saddlebags.” he said, accusingly.

“Mnfm.” John turned towards him and buried his face into Sherlock’s armpit.

“You were so certain of my venality?”

“I was certain of nothing but that I would not be thwarted in my possession of you, should you be so inclined.” John said.

“Oh,” Sherlock said faintly, and kissed him again, ignoring the smug curve of John’s mouth.

 

“I’m not sure whether you’ve noticed, John,” Sherlock said, some time later, “but it is getting dark.”

“So it is,” John yawned, “I’d thought it was just the back of my eyelids that lacked a sun.”

“Illogical. Terribly illogical.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“Indeed. Also, I’m hungry.”

“That’s what you get for eating one piece of toast.”

“I wasn’t hungry then.”

“Of course not. Get dressed then, and we’ll go back for dinner.”

“I don’t quite fancy putting on wet things,” Sherlock grimaced, twining himself more closely around John’s warmth.

“Oh, there wasn’t just tallow in my saddlebags. I have a spare suit of yours,” John said. Sherlock gaped. “I admit I was somewhat forewarned,” John continued, disentangling himself reluctantly, “although I cannot say that I expected you to be just as bad a rider as as your brother said you were.”

Sherlock huffed in irritation, but he could not quite work himself up to anything else as he watched John dress, his compact golden body nearly shining in the fading light.

John smiled at him.

“It’s all right, Sherlock.”

 

And it was.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> * I’ve stretched out the age difference here a little; John is about 30, while Sherlock is a young-for-his age 22. I wanted to play with the power differential a bit (ok, I wanted to imagine hot, bearded, mature John Watson making young Sherlock fall apart. Sue me.)
> 
> * The proper form of address for a viscount is “Lord”


End file.
